


Feet First, Don't Fall

by bananamuffin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Roman Holiday AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 18:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8906533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananamuffin/pseuds/bananamuffin
Summary: Mikkel's phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket to see that he had another message from Yands. It was a link this time to an article titled “Swedish Prince Falls Ill Overnight, Reschedules Press Conference.”He scrolled down, skimming over the text until he came across a picture of the prince. He blinked at it for a moment, looked up at Owen, who had gone back to watching people stroll by the window, and back to his phone. Then he opened his message thread with Yands.Meet me at Gila, we’ve still got a story





	

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, thanks to [WrittenFire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittenFire/profile) for reading every little bit as I pushed through this. and also thanks to gabby, without whom this fic would never have been finished and would not have the ending that it has!  
> title is from Roman Holiday by Halsey because of course it is

Oliver was trying really hard to pretend he wasn’t bored.

He was seated toward the head of a long, brown table in a high-backed chair. Vermette, his long-time advisor, sat next to him, ever present leather bound notebook and planner in front of him. On his other side, at the head of the table, was the current Queen of Italy, who didn’t really seem to be hiding the fact that she was bored. Then again, Oliver thought, she can do whatever she wants in her own country

An Italian dignitary stood on the opposite side of the table, talking about some subject Oliver had lost track of three or four speakers ago. He smiled and nodded whenever she paused to look at her audience’s reaction. Beside him Vermy was scratching away with his pen, taking notes he’d share with Oliver later that night so Oliver could reference them in whatever speech he’d have to make tomorrow.

As usual, Oliver was really grateful that Vermy loved this political stuff. Some of it was interesting but Oliver had very little desire to sit with senators and delegates for hours, discussing policies he wasn’t even allowed to share his real opinion on; all of his “opinions” were the Official Beliefs of the Royal Family of Sweden, which they of course all agreed on.

As it was, Vermy took the notes and put together thoughts that reflected the official opinions of Oliver’s family and then spent the night teaching them to Oliver. Oliver had gotten pretty good at memorizing and spouting thoughts that weren’t completely his own.

A sharp elbow to the ribs brought Oliver’s attention back to the present. Blinking, he looked at Vermy, owner of the offending elbow.

“She asked you a question,” Vermy said quietly, his head down. Oliver looked up to find that the woman speaking was indeed looking at him as if she were waiting for him to answer.

Vermy tapped the corner of his notebook twice with his pen. Oliver looked down to see that he had written “EDUCATION REFORM” in all caps followed by “KIDS ARE FUTURE” underlined twice.

Oliver cleared his throat, put on his best diplomatic smile and said, “Ah, yes! We in Sweden believe education is of the utmost importance. We believe that since the children will be in charge of our future, they should all have equal opportunities to learn and advance.”

The woman looked pleased with his answer. “Yes, of course, as I was saying, education in Italy should—“ she started, turning back to her presentation board. Oliver tuned the rest out. He’d hit his limit about two hours ago and had no idea how many more presentations there were until he could leave.

“Thanks,” he muttered to Vermy.

“At least pretend to pay attention,” Vermy answered, writing something in his notebook.

“I’m doing my best,” Oliver argued back.

Vermy made a humming noise back, but he didn’t really seem all that annoyed, so Oliver let it drop.

The woman finished speaking and Oliver clapped along with the rest of the room as she packed up her board.

One of the Queen’s advisors, seated on her other side, tapped a printed itinerary that she kept in a white leather bound planner. Oliver idly thought that she and Vermy would get along well. He made a mental note to bring this up to his advisor later.

“We’re about halfway through now,” she said, tucking some of her blond hair back behind her ear as she made a note in her notebook. “Three more until we get a lunch break.”

Oliver groaned inwardly. Vermette kicked him under the table.

“Please send in the next one,” the Queen’s advisor called. A short man wearing a very blue suit was sent through the doors. He was carrying a piece of cardboard with what looked like building plans on it and papers were sticking out of the corner of his briefcase.

“Good afternoon,” the man said. Oliver didn’t like the way he smiled at them. “I am Josef Romero.”

But Oliver put on his best diplomatic smile anyway, again. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Romero.”

He started counting the minutes until lunch.

~

Mikkel was always losing things.

He’d lost his job in Copenhagen, covering political figures and events for a relatively large newspaper, due to downsizing. When he’d come to Rome it was supposed to be to take a break from work, recover from the layoff and then he would go back in a week or so, ready to set out on the job hunt. Instead he’d fallen in love with Rome, the city and the water and the architecture—the architecture always got him. He fell in love with a spacious apartment that let him look over the city and live with his brother, and he fell in love with a girl who was “just traveling through” but thought she “might stay awhile, if there’s something here to do.”

Then his brother had gone back home and he’d lost both the apartment and the girl, but he was more upset about the apartment, which was rent controlled but that didn’t matter when he didn’t have a job that paid; he always figured he’d lose the girl, anyway.

His new apartment on the bank of the Tiber was small, a miniature studio, really, but at least the windows were big, letting in plenty of light and letting him look out over the river when he wanted.

He had found a job at a local paper. It wasn’t a big one but it was a job and it usually paid. He was covering local politics again, sometimes people running for local government, sometimes national government, but usually people campaigning for head of the Local Business Bureau.

And with the digital age dramatically bringing down the number of people who bought actual physical newspapers, Mikkel thought he might be on the verge of losing that, too.

And Mikkel was always, always, always losing at cards.

“I don’t know why you still play, man,” Yands said as he raked in his winnings from the night, stacking the euros so they were all facing the same way.

Mikkel shrugged. “What else have I got to do around here?”

“Your loss is my gain, I guess,” Yands answered.

“Yeah, so is everyone else’s,” Hanzal piped up from his seat at the table. They played in Doaner’s apartment, usually; most of them worked for the paper. Hanzal covered international politics and affairs, Z was the managing editor for that department, and Doaner was the editor of, interestingly enough, the lifestyle section. Smitty was the only one of them there that didn’t work at the paper; he owned a butcher’s shop down the street from Doaner’s place and tended to show up wherever Doaner did.

“Ya shark,” Z added. Hanzal nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Hey,” Yands said, holding up his hands, “I can’t help it if you guys have terrible poker faces.”

The room murmured in disagreement, with the usual talk of not inviting “that no-good money-hungry hustling American” back to their games.

“It’s not hustling if you know I’m good,” Yands deadpanned. No one else seemed to agree.

Yands tucked the money away in the inside pocket of his black camera bag and zipped it closed. “Ready to go? We’ve got to get up in—“ he glanced at his watch—“7 hours to get to that press conference tomorrow.”

“Ah, right,” Mikkel said, following Yands out into the street, tossing a “See ya tomorrow, boys!” over his shoulder as he went. “The Prince of Sweden is here to talk about education and foreign relations, or whatever the usual is.”

“A story’s a story,” Yands answered. Mikkel nodded, though he didn’t really agree. Some stories were more of a story than others, but he was getting paid for it, so.

They reached the end of the street, where they each went their separate ways, Yands further into the city, Mikkel to the edge.

“Don’t be late!” Yands called to him as he walked up the street. Mikkel waved in acknowledgement.

He pulled his coat a little closer around him and headed toward his apartment.

~

“We have to provide equal opportunities for education,” Oliver was saying, monotonously, as he was getting ready for bed. “Because the children are our future and we must be sure they have the tools to change the world.”

“Very good,” Vermy said from his chair next to Oliver’s bed, where he sat every night to judge Oliver’s recitals of whichever idea he was to speak about the next day. “Except you’re supposed to be talking about Universal Healthcare, not education.”

Oliver sighed and tipped himself back on his bed, the white comforter billowing up around him. “They’re all the same speeches, my parents haven’t changed their views on anything in the last five years. Do we really need to practice tonight?”

Vermy closed his notebook in such a way that Oliver could practically hear the judgment. “Oliver, it’s very important that we—“

“That we impress and maintain relations with the Italian monarchy, yes, I know.” Oliver rolled over and buried his face in the comforter. “I’m trying Vermy, but sometimes I just want a break.”

Vermy sighed, and this time Oliver knew it was in empathy, not judgment. Vermy had been taking care of Oliver since Oliver was fifteen and had begun learning how to really be a Prince. Oliver knew Vermy had his best interests at heart, even though technically his job was to have Sweden’s best interest at heart. But Vermy had proven over the years that when Oliver really needed him, he’d be Oliver’s friend first.

“We have a break after France,” Vermy said, trying to be helpful. “And then we can do whatever you want.”

“That’s two weeks from now,” Ollie complained. “I’ve been on this tour for months.”

Vermy patted Oliver’s back comfortingly. “I know it’s hard, O, but you’re the oldest and your parents are very busy. And it looks good for the whole family to be involved.”

Oliver thought, a bit grudgingly, that Kevin didn’t have to tour the globe meeting foreign dignitaries and sitting in on boring meetings. He got to stay home and play hockey and make friends that weren’t other royals.

“I’m in _Rome_ ,” Oliver said suddenly, sitting up to look at Vermy. “I could be out there, eating ice cream and meeting people, doing as Romans do. Instead I have to stay inside the Coliseum all day, in meetings that I don’t even care about.” The Coliseum was, admittedly, one of the coolest places he’d ever stayed in, but still. He was in _Rome_. “Just one day?”

Vermy did not look impressed. “You have several meetings tomorrow, plus a press conference being covered by dozens of Italian media outlets.”

“Please?” Oliver tried.

“No,” Vermy said. He didn’t seem that happy about it either, but he stood firm. “How about we take the morning off our first day in France and I’ll show you around a bit.” Vermy was excited to return home for a bit, Oliver knew. When he was younger he’d asked him how he ended up working for the Swedish government and he’d shrugged, saying, “It was something new,” and always left it at that.

“Vermy,” Oliver started, turning to face his advisor. “Just one day. I’ll keep a low profile and just explore the city for a bit.”

Vermy leveled him with a glare. “Oliver, your parents would fire me on the spot if they ever found out I let you do something like this. You have _obligations._ And you’re a prince, how would you expect to keep a low profile?”

“Those obligations will still be there when I come back,” Oliver said in his most convincing tone, the one he reserved for closing out diplomatic conversations. Vermy saw right through it, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “And besides, no one here will know who I am. I doubt they care about Swedish Royalty in Italy.”

Vermy did not look convinced.

“Please, Vermy?” Oliver pushed himself to his knees and put his hands on Vermy’s shoulder. “Please please please please—“

Vermy sighed and Oliver knew he had won.

“ _Fine_ ,” Vermy gritted out. “I will cover for you this _one_ time, Oliver, because you need a break.”

“It will be a break for you, too,” Oliver said brightly. “You don’t have to watch over me, you can hang out with the Queen’s advisor. What was her name? Karen?”

Oliver could see Vermy’s jaw working and he knew he’d guessed right earlier when he thought the two of them would get along. He thought Vermy might have been blushing a bit, it was kind of adorable.

“I will tell them you’re sick and don’t want to be bothered,” Vermy said, pushing Oliver’s arms off his shoulders. “And _you_ will text me every hour with where you are so I can keep track of you.”

Oliver grinned. “Deal.”

Vermy gave him a look that showed just how much he disapproved. But then his face softened and he reached out to tousle Oliver’s hair, pulling on the ends like he knew Oliver hated.

“You need a break, kid. Just don’t make me regret it.” Vermy stepped back from the bed and picked up his planner. “Now go to sleep, I will have to get you up early to get you out of here before anyone notices.”

“You’re the best!” Oliver called after him and Vermy waved at him over his shoulder.

Oliver threw himself under the covers, a little too excited to go to sleep. He’d never been allowed to go out on his own, especially not in a foreign city.

He had no idea what he was going to do tomorrow, and he loved the idea of it.

~

Mikkel was in the middle of ordering his morning coffee when he received the text from Yands.

_prince presser is off_

_he woke up sick or something idk_

Mikkel sighed and shoved his phone back in his coat pocket. It was just like a prince, he decided, to cancel at the last minute without thinking about the livelihoods of everyone else involved.

“When I’m sick I still have to go to work,” he grumbled in Danish, handing his euros over to the cashier. “I get paid by the story.”

She looked at him sympathetically, though Mikkel was pretty sure she had no idea what he had said. But it was a Monday morning. She probably got a lot of moody customers this time of day.

He looked around for a place to sit in the café. It was small but didn’t feel tight, probably because of the large windows letting in plenty of light. There weren’t any empty tables, most taken up by people in suits or college kids, probably some freelance writers as well; Mikkel knew from experience that these sort of places were good for getting past writer’s block.

There was a table in the back corner with two empty seats. Its only occupant was a young man, probably younger than Mikkel. He didn’t look like a business man—no suit, and a hat pulled down over his eyes—and the lack of an open laptop or harried appearance meant he probably wasn’t here to write. Mikkel guessed he was a college kid, maybe a graduate. Not necessarily his favorite group of people but he wasn’t in any hurry to get anywhere, so he approached the table.

“Excuse me, mind if I sit here?” he asked in his best Italian. He’d improved a lot in the year and half he’d been living in Rome and he’d found that the native speakers always appreciated when he at least tried to speak Italian first.

The man looked up at him, blinking and Mikkel guessed that maybe Italian wasn’t the right way to go.

“Mind if I sit here?” He repeated in English and gestured at one of the empty seats for good measure. “All my plans for the day were canceled, so I’ve got some time to kill.” He added a smile.

“Uh…sure,” the man answered in accented English. He pulled his coffee closer to him and returned to looking out the window. Mikkel didn’t blame him, this café had a pretty good view.

“Are you on holiday?” Mikkel asked the man just as a worker set his coffee in front of him. She put down a cup of creamer and some wooden stirrers, and Mikkel gave her a “ _Grazi”_ before she left.

“Something like that,” the man said. His grin was a bit mischevious, which Mikkel didn’t exactly understand but, well, it was also a little bit adorable. Maybe he didn’t lose out that much from the canceled presser. “I am taking a day break in Rome,” he added.

“Not many places better for taking a break,” Mikkel said, taking a sip of his coffee. “I’ve been on break here for a year and a half. I’m Mikkel,” he introduced himself, extending his hand.

The man took it, shaking it firmly. “I’m O—Owen,” he stuttered, a bit of a blush creeping up to his cheeks. He didn’t really look like an Owen to Mikkel, but who was he to judge.

“Nice to meet you, Owen,” Mikkel said. “What brings you to Rome?”

“Business,” Owen answered. Mikkel looked at his attire—jeans, white sneakers and a nice sweater, hair poking out the bottom of his black cap—and raised his eyebrows.

Owen blushed again. “I told you, I’m taking a break today.”

Mikkel tried to figure out his accent. It seemed familiar to him—something about the way he said his “d’s” reminded him of someone he knew—but he couldn’t place it.

“Anything on the agenda?” Mikkel asked.

Owen shook his head. “Nothing at all, except whatever I want to do.” He was smiling again and Mikkel thought he might really like it, Owen’s smile.

His phone buzzed and he pulled it out of his pocket to see that he had another message from Yands. It was a link this time to an article titled “Swedish Prince Falls Ill Overnight, Reschedules Press Conference.”

He scrolled down, skimming over the text until he came across a picture of the prince. He blinked at it for a moment, looked up at Owen, who had gone back to watching people stroll by the window, and back to his phone. Then he opened his message thread with Yands.

_Meet me at Gila, we’ve still got a story_

~

Oliver hadn’t had unscheduled free time in a very long time. He hadn’t known where to go when Vermy had pushed a hat on his head, said “Text me _every hour_ , Oliver,” and pushed him out a worker’s gate on the side of the Coliseum grounds. 

He’d wandered through the streets for a little while but the city hadn’t really woken up yet. He passed by a few shops that were just opening up for the day, the shop owners tipping their heads at him and smiling as they flipped the “Abierta” signs in their windows.

It was nice, he thought, to not have to do anything other than what he wanted to do for a whole day. The only problem was that, not normally being in charge of how he spends his days, he had no idea how he wanted to spend the day.

He ended up in a small but bright café near the edge of the city. He couldn’t read the name of it, but it looked nice enough and was busy enough that no one would be paying much attention to him, but not so busy that he couldn’t sit by the window while he decided what he wanted to do today.

And that was how he had come across Mikkel—or how Mikkel had come across him—who was now saying, “If you want, I could show you around the city.”

Oliver started to say no but stopped himself. He was supposed to be doing whatever he wanted, but he had no idea what there was to do here, and there were worse things than being shown around by nice guys with very blue eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t have better things to do?” He asked, a little doubtful.

“My schedule is completely free,” Mikkel said, smiling over at Oliver. He seemed sincere about it, so Oliver nodded.

“That’d be great,” he said, and then a few minutes later he texted Vermy to let him know he was leaving the café as he followed Mikkel.

“I just have to make one stop,” Mikkel said, leading him up the street, toward the center of the city. “Gotta pick up something from work.”

That something turned out to be a person, who was waiting in front of a small staircase leading to a small white painted building. He had dark hair and a black bag hung on a strap across his body. He didn’t look all that happy to see them.

“I was supposed to spend the day with my wife, Boeds,” the man said, “so you had better have—“

“Yands!” Mikkel interrupted. “Meet my new friend Owen. Owen, this is Keith Yandle.”

“Yands is fine,” said Yands, extending his hand. Oliver shook it, then asked, “This is where you work?”

“Every day for the last year,” Mikkel says, smiling. “Yands works here, too.”

“What do you do?” Oliver asked, genuinely curious. He hadn’t met many people whose jobs didn’t revolve around some sort of royal or government duties in so long.

Yands started to answer but Mikkel was faster. “Taxes,” he said.

“Taxes?” Yands echoed, looking over at Mikkel. “What the h—hey!”

“Sorry about that,” Mikkel said to Yands, pulling his foot back from where it had been on top of Yands’. “I’m pretty clumsy this morning.”

Yands muttered something under his breath but Oliver couldn’t hear it and Mikkel seemed to ignore it entirely.

“We’re going to give Owen a tour today,” Mikkel said, looking back at Oliver and smiling. Oliver smiled back, unable to help it; Mikkel’s smiles seemed to have that effect on him.

Yands looked like he was going to speak but then he stopped, eyes caught on Oliver’s face. Oliver ducked his head, unsettled. He really hoped Yands didn’t recognize who he was.

“Has anyone ever told you—“ Yands started but was again cut off by Mikkel.

“That tax season is really hard in Italy?” Mikkel finished for him.

Yands looked at him like he was crazy. “What are you—“

“Excuse us, Owen,” Mikkel cut in, grabbing Yands by the arm. “We need to get something from the office and then we’ll be right back. You think about what you want to do first.” Then Mikkel dragged Yands up the stairs and into their office building.

They seemed a little bit strange to Oliver. Nice, sure, but there was something not quite right that he couldn’t quite place his finger on. He thought about it for a moment before shrugging to himself and attributing it to his lack of experience with normal people. Maybe all normal people spoke with their friends like that.

And besides, he liked Mikkel. Yands seemed alright, too.

He was weighing his options for the day when Mikkel and Yands came back. Yands looked quite a bit more excited than before he had gone inside.

“Get what you needed?” Oliver asked. He didn’t have any papers or anything in his hands but he was carrying a book bag across his shoulders, which he could have placed them in.

“Yes, we’re all good here,” Mikkel said, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Did you decide where you wanted to go first?”

Oliver thought about it for a moment, then said, “Gelato.”

Mikkel grinned at him. “Gelato it is, then.”

Oliver followed him up the street once more.

~

Mikkel had grown, over the last year, to rely pretty heavily on Yands for most things. Yands was settled down and married to a woman with a really good job and had a daughter he loved very much and who Mikkel was pretty fond of as well. He tended to be the responsible adult in the relationship and as such he made sure that Mikkel went grocery shopping before he was completely out of edible things, texted him to remind him to pay his rent, dropped off meals Kristyn “made too much of, don’t worry about it” and once Mads went back to Brøndby, made sure Mikkel was never alone for too long.

Having spent all of this time together, Mikkel knew that Yands had a quick wit and a good-natured but occasionally biting sense of humor. He picked on Mikkel and everyone constantly, with affection, and was generally a few steps ahead of everyone else. Mikkel figured a lot of Americans who lasted in Europe needed to have this skill.

But he was certainly not showing any of this wit today.

“That’s the Prince of Sweden,” Yands said to him in the entrance way of the Gila River Times. “You know you have the Prince of Sweden with you, right?”

“Yes,” Mikkel said, then bent in so he could speak directly to Yandle’s ear. “Yands, we’re going to cover his ‘sick day.’”

Yands looked at him, a little bit suspicious. “Does ‘Owen’ know that you know who he is?”

“No,” Mikkel answered. “And if you want to be the photographer on this story, he’s not going to.”

Yands sighed. He looked at the door, like he was trying to look at the prince through it, and then back at Mikkel. “You’re lucky iPhones have really good cameras these days, or else this would be impossible.”

Mikkel smiled at him. “You can figure it out.” He was about to pull them back out of the office when a voice stopped him.

“Boedker, there you are,” Tippet said, coming out of his office into the entryway. “I was wondering if you would show up today.”

“Of course I came in, Tip,” Mikkel said, turning back to face his editor. “Big presser got canceled, I needed a new story, didn’t I?”

Tip looked unimpressed with Mikkel’s work ethic. “Did you come up with anything, then?”

“Sure,” Mikkel answered, glancing at Yands, who nodded along. “Yands is going to be the photographer on it, too.”

“Of course he is,” Tippet said, because Yands was almost always the photographer on Mikkel’s stories. “What’s the story?”

“Oh, it’s big,” Mikkel said, leaning up against the door. “Huge. It’s gonna be great.”

“What,” Tippet said slowly, “is it?”

“I, uh, I got an interview with the Prince,” Mikkel said quickly. “Of Sweden, that is.”

Tippet narrowed his eyes. “The Prince is sick, which is why you need a new story to begin with.”

“Right, of course, but he agreed to see me. Said he wanted to meet with someone who could speak Swedish so he didn’t have to try so hard while he’s ill, you know.”

“You speak Swedish?” Tippet asked, raising his eyebrows.

Mikkel shrugged. “It’s not that different from Danish, really.” He was pretty sure he’d put that on his resume.

“What will you talk about?”

“Ahh, you know, the usual,” Mikkel answered vaguely. “Politics, foreign relations, what the Prince likes to do in his spare time.”

Tippet stared at him for a moment and Mikkel was pretty sure he was weighing the truth of his story. If Mikkel weren’t actually lying, he’d be a little offended; he’d never let Tip down, yet.

Tippet sighed. “Stick to politics,” he said to Mikkel, and then, “Keep him out of trouble,” to Yands, which Mikkel thought was fair enough.

“I’ll do my best, sir,” Yands said stoically, and then complained as Mikkel pulled him out the door.

And now Mikkel was guiding the prince into the city to his favorite gelato stand.

He waited as ‘Owen’, which was how he’d decided to refer to him in his head, to prevent him from using the wrong name, picked out the kind of gelato he wanted. Mikkel himself always went with the mint chocolate, but apparently Owen was more of a Tiramisu kind of guy. Yands stood beside them, occasionally raising his phone as if he were having trouble reading a text to snap a picture of the prince. He gave Mikkel a look when Mikkel told the vendor, in Italian, “This one’s on him,” and smiled, pointing at Yands.

“So,” Mikkel said as they walked through the streets, “as far as tourist sites go, you’ll want to see the Spanish Steps, of course.”

“And the Pantheon,” Yands piped up on Owen’s other side.

“Right, sure,” Mikkel agreed. He took a bite of his gelato, pondering more destinations as it melted in his mouth. “Piazza Novana is a good place, if you want to go to the bars. And I could give you a tour of the Galleria Borghese, if you like art.”

Owen looked over at him. Now that he’d turned his hat around, Mikkel could see his eyes. They were a light brown, sort of hazel, and they were looking a bit fondly at Mikkel. He took another bite of his gelato to keep himself from blushing.

“You like art?” Oliver asked him.

“Sure,” Mikkel answered. “I majored in Art History at the University of Copenhagen.” He’d liked art a lot more, back then, when he hadn’t had to worry about paying bills and thought he could get a job writing the culture section of some big paper, going to art events every few days. But then he’d been hired as a political writer at a paper that barely even had a cultures section and then he’d ended up here, taking the first job he could find.

Not that he minded working for Gila River. He loved the guys and he made enough money to sustain himself. He was living in a city full of art, from the architecture to the museums, and he had good friends. If he could just write about art, he was sure he wouldn’t find anything to complain about.

“Art history and accounting?” Owen asked him, sounding a bit surprised.

Mikkel was caught off guard by the question, pulling him out of his reverie. A few seconds passed before he caught up to the question. _Accounting. Taxes. Right_.

“You can’t help what interests you, I guess,” Mikkel said, and noticed that Owen ducked his head at that, looking away from Mikkel.

“I guess not,” he answered, and Mikkel saw Yands bring his phone up again.

“You’ll want to see the Coliseum, too,” Mikkel said, already knowing that Owen would not want to see the Coliseum.

“No,” Owen cut in sharply, and then he took a breath. “I mean, I’ve already seen the Coliseum, no need to see it again.” He smiled, small and genuine, and Mikkel briefly felt bad for taking advantage of him like this.

But only briefly, because rent was due in three days and Yands had taken all his money in poker.

“Well, you have to see the Trevi, doesn’t he, Yands?” Mikkel leaned around Owen to look at Yands, who nodded emphatically.

“Everyone has to see the Trevi,” he said, tucking his phone in his pocket. “It’s the only way to ensure that you’ll come back.”

Owen smiled again. “I’ve heard about the Trevi Fountain. I’d like to see it.”

“Great,” Mikkel said. He finished the last of his gelato and tossed the empty paper cup into a garbage can, wiping his hands together. “The question is, what do you want to do first?”

Mikkel watched as Owen thought about it. He looked around the area and then his eyes lit up as he spotted something behind Mikkel. “I want to ride one of those.”

Mikkel turned around to see what had caught his attention and found himself looking at three light blue painted Vespas in front of a small shop that rented them to tourists.

Mikkel laughed. “It’s your day, Owen,” he said and watched as his face lit up again. Owen led the way over to the shop but when he got there he paused and turned to Mikkel.

“I can’t speak Italian,” he said. He looked mildly annoyed about it.

Mikkel went inside the shop. It only took a few moments to arrange a rental for a few hours; it was fifty euros per hour, with a fifty euro down payment for security, and as long as Mikkel had it back to them in more or less the same shape as when he took it, they wouldn’t have any problems. Mikkel motioned Yands inside and when he entered, he said, “He’ll take care of the money,” and took the keys from the shop owner.

Yands’ exasperated sigh followed him out the door.

“So,” Mikkel said to Owen when he reached him, “do you know how these work?”

Owen shook his head.

“Not a problem,” Mikkel said, smiling easily. “I’ll show you. It’s just like a bike.” He pointed to the levers on each of the handles. “These are your brakes, right for the front, left for the back.” He pointed to a red button on the side of the right handle. “This is how you start it." Then he pointed to the grip on the right handle. “And this is the throttle. The more you twist it, the faster you go.”

He looked up at Owen, who had been nodding along. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” Owen said, and Mikkel handed him the keys. He picked up the helmet from the seat and turned to see what Yands was doing.

“Ready to go?” Mikkel called. Yands shot him a dirty look and signed something for the shop owner before heading toward Mikkel.

Behind him, Mikkel heard the Vespa start up, and he turned to see Owen driving it down the street, very quickly and very wobbly.

“You might want to catch him.” Yands said dryly, pulling his good camera out of his bag as he said so. Mikkel swore under his breath but chased after him, laughing.

“Sorry!” Owen yelled at a couple walking on the street that he’d forced to dive out of the way. “Pardon me!” he called at an elderly man who was walking his dog and had to dodge to the right.

Mikkel caught up to him at the top of the next block when he’d slowed down in an effort to gain some more control over the scooter. Unfortunately, it seemed to be having the opposite effect—the more he slowed, the wobblier he went.

Owen had placed himself at the tip of the seat so Mikkel, rather athletically, pulled himself onto the back of the scooter.

He placed the helmet on Owen’s head then reached around to take control of the handles. “You do the throttle, I’ll steer,” he said, laughing. He heard Owen laugh, too, felt the vibrations of it in his chest where Owen was leaning against him. Mikkel swallowed, then leaned around Owen so he could see the road. 

He hoped Yands was keeping up.

Mikkel steered them toward one of his favorite places to people watch: The Spanish Steps. They parked the Vespa at the bottom of the stairs and stood near the bottom, watching the tourists take pictures at the top of the stairs and in front of the fountain.

“Well, I think we’re off to a great start,” Mikkel said, grinning at Owen. Owen smiled back and Mikkel was a little taken aback by just how happy he looked; all they’d done was ride a vespa and eat gelato so far.

Then again, Rome has that effect on Mikkel, too.

“I’m having fun,” Owen said. He sounded a little surprised.

“Don’t get out much?” Mikkel hazarded a guess. He looked the type.

Owen shook his head. “I travel a lot,” he explained, “but I never get to do anything other than work.”

Mikkel nodded empathetically. “Well, Rome’s a great first place for a holiday,” he said.

Owen was looking around the square, a little wonderstruck, and Mikkel found himself endeared by it. He would have thought there wasn’t anything that wouldn’t be old hat to someone who was on a global tour, but even he didn’t get that many breaks, and he was just a writer, not a prince.

“I like it here,” Owen said, watching the people climb the stairs. “It makes me feel…free. Like I can do anything.” He looked down at his feet, then glanced at Mikkel out of the corner of his eye. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“It isn’t,” Mikkel answered. “It’s why I stay here.”

Owen smiled at him. “I’d probably stay, too, if I could.”

“Why can’t you?” Mikkel asked, and then he felt stupid for it, because he knew the answer.

Owen shrugged and looked away again. “Work. Obligations. _Duties_.” The extra emphasis he put on the last word told Mikkel it was a term he wasn’t particularly fond of. “Sometimes I just…” he trailed off, stuffing his hands in his back pockets and watching the stair climbers again. “Sometimes I just wonder what it’d be like. To be someone different for a day. Someone _normal_. Doing what _I_ want to do.”

“I know the feeling,” Mikkel said. He started to tell Owen the reason he’d come to Italy, that he’d wanted to take a break and get a job writing about art, maybe giving tours in the Galleria, but he thought better of it, so he asked, “What do you want to do?”

Owen looked surprised, like no one had ever asked him that before. “I haven’t really had a lot of time to think about that,” he confessed.

“Well, what do you want to do right now, then?” Mikkel asked. Owen turned toward him, a considering look on his face.

“I want to take a tourist picture,” he said, smiling, “at the top of the stairs. Will you take it for me?” He pulled out his phone and swiped up, opening the camera app and handing it over.

Mikkel laughed but took the phone from him. “Anything you want, Owen,” he said, and Owen’s smile grew bigger.

Yands appeared at his side as Owen began climbing the steps.

“Where’ve you been?” Mikkel asked, glancing at him briefly before turning back to watch Owen walk up the stairs.

“Taking pictures,” Yands said firmly. “Doing my job.”

“I’m doing my job,” Mikkel said defensively. It wasn’t like he could pull out his phone and record everything Owen said to him. He was taking mental notes.

“Mhm,” Yands said. He looked back and forth between Mikkel and where Mikkel was watching Owen, then said, “I know that look.”

“There’s no look,” Mikkel said, and then, “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing,” Yands said with a sigh. “Just remember, you dragged me out here for a job, and Tip, _your boss_ , is going to be mad if you don’t come to work with an article tomorrow.”

“I’ll have an article!” Mikkel protested. He had no idea what Yands was getting at, he always did his job. Yands made a disagreeing noise but didn’t say anything further.

Owen reached the top of the steps and flashed Mikkel a thumbs up that Mikkel could barely see. He held up the iPhone and took a few snaps from the full distance, then zoomed in a little, far enough that Owen’s face was visible, broad grin and all, and took a few more. He gave him a thumbs up back and then waited as Owen began his way back down the steps.

Yands said, “They don’t pay me enough to work with you.”

Mikkel said, “You love me,” and watched Owen come down the stairs.

~

They end up eating dinner on the patio of a nice bistro in the Piazza Novano, Oliver sitting at the white table-clothed table between Yands and Mikkel and feeling a lot lighter than he had in years.

After taking the tourist picture at the steps, Mikkel had shown him a few of his other favorite historical sites in the city. They’d visited the Sistine Chapel, of course, with Mikkel explaining the history of the painting on the ceiling.

It was clear, though, that Galleria Borghese was Mikkel’s favorite place. He was at complete ease there, telling Oliver everything he knew about each piece of art. They were passed by the same tour guide with a different group of guests 3 times, but Oliver didn’t mind. For the first time in years, he didn’t have anywhere else to be.

And Oliver was pretty sure he was learning a lot more than any other guest anyway. Yands followed them through the gallery, giving Oliver looks from time to time that suggest that he’d heard all of this before, probably several times, which made him laugh, but he was actually enjoying listening to Mikkel talk about art.

Or, well, he was enjoying _watching_ Mikkel talk about art; Oliver didn’t mind art, really, he wouldn’t say he was a fanatic but he did immensely enjoy the way Mikkel’s eyes lit up when he was talking about a piece he really loved. How his hands waved emphatically as he described a painter Oliver had never heard of but whose techniques Mikkel had very, very strong opinions on. The way he watched Oliver when he looked at a painting or a sculpture, waiting for a reaction. His smile when Oliver loved something that he did and the big laugh he let out when Oliver would stare at something for a while and then, unable to come to any positive conclusion about it, say, “It’s nice.”

He was a bit sad, actually, when they came to the end of the gallery, but then his stomach had rumbled, loudly, and he’d realized that he hadn’t really eaten anything today other than gelato. Mikkel had laughed, turned to Yands and said, “Let’s go to the Piazzo.”

And so they had went, returning the Vespa on their way back, and now a tall, skinny kid was taking their order while Oliver tried hard not to think about Mikkel’s knee pressed into his under the table.

It was a small table.

Their waiter wore a nametag on the upper right side of his shirt that read _Connor_ in bold black letters.

“Connor,” Yands said, “what would you recommend for us today?”

“Today’s special is the chicken penne,” Connor said, smiling at them. “Which I can personally attest to being the best chicken penne that you’ll get anywhere.”

The group nodded and Connor continued. “Of course, all of our sea food dishes are completely fresh and delicious. Personally, my favorite is the lobster ravioli, but Tobi over there,” he pointed to another waiter on the opposite side of the patio. He was smaller than Connor and had black hair to Connor’s blond. When he heard his name, he briefly looked over his shoulder at them, gave them a small smile, and turned back to the table whose order he was taking. “He swears by the crab.”

Taking all of this into consideration, they ordered their food—lobster ravioli for Oliver and Yands, chicken penne for Mikkel—and once their waiter left, Mikkel turned to Oliver.

“So, your free day is almost over,” he said. “How do you feel about it?”

Oliver looked down at his lap, where he was playing with his napkin. “It was good,” he decided, then revised, “Great. It was great. I don’t want it to end.”

“All good things must come to an end,” Mikkel mused. He was looking at Oliver, his face hard to read, but Oliver felt himself turning red under the gaze. He took a sip of his water just to have something to do.

Later, when their waiter brought them their check, Mikkel asked him, “Connor, our friend Owen here is taking his first holiday in a very long time. It’ll be over in,” he pauses to check his watch, “seven hours. You seem like you know your way around here. Where should we finish the day?”

Connor thought on it for a moment, his brow furrowing until suddenly, he had something. “There’s a party tonight on the Tiber. Lots of people will be there, it should be a lot of fun. Just follow this street all the way out of the city and you’ll find it.” He pointed up the street to show them just how easy it would be.

Oliver was delighted; he’d never been to a party that didn’t involve formal attire and three forks in the dining set. “We have to go,” he said ecstatically, turning to Mikkel, who smiled at him easily.

“It’s your day,” Mikkel said. Oliver smiled at that.

Yands excused himself to the restroom and when he was gone, Mikkel asked, “So what are you going to do when it’s over?”

Oliver frowned. He’d been avoiding thinking about that all day. “I don’t want to go back,” he said abruptly.

Mikkel raised his eyebrows. “Go back?”

“To work,” Oliver said quickly. It wasn’t really a lie, anyway. “I want to stay here. I mean, in Rome,” he added, when Mikkel raised his eyebrows at him. “I like it here.”

Mikkel smiled at him, a bit wistfully.

“It’s nice,” Oliver said, “to be somewhere no one knows me.”

“No expectations,” Mikkel said, and he nodded. Then he shrugged. “Except your own, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed, and felt a pang of guilt. He’d spent the day lying to the Italian Monarchy, to the press, and even to Mikkel and Yands, who had been nothing but nice to him all day, just so he could get a day off from his princely duties. He pulled out his phone to see a few texts from Vermy.

_I have had to body block three people from entering your room in the past hour, Oliver._

_BODY BLOCK, OLIVER_

_We might not be allowed back here next tour._

Oliver laughed quietly and pocketed his phone. He felt bad about making Vermy cover for him, too, but he knew he wouldn’t hold it against him. At least, not for long.

“Rome is where I came for that, too,” Mikkel said. He drummed his fingers on the table and when Oliver looked up, Mikkel seemed to be studying him. Oliver willed himself not to blush when he met Mikkel’s gaze, but he was pretty sure he felt his cheeks warming up despite himself. “Was supposed to be a vacation, but,” Mikkel shrugged and paused. “I keep finding things I like here,” Mikkel said, finally looking away.

Oliver watched him for a moment, studied his profile as Mikkel, almost determinedly it seemed, didn’t look at him. He didn’t look very happy and Oliver didn’t understand why—he thought he’d be happy to live the rest of his life in Rome, never having to discuss another public policy with any foreign dignitaries ever again.

Maybe it’s the taxes, he thought to himself, remembering how confident and happy Mikkel had seemed walking the halls of the gallery. He’d probably hate living in a city as wonderful as Rome stuck doing taxes. Then again, he didn’t major in accounting.

“Where to next?” Yands voice interrupted Oliver’s thoughts. Oliver hadn’t heard him come back to the table. “We’ve got some time to kill before the party.”

Oliver looked to Mikkel, who so far had not led them astray in his tour of Rome. Oliver had genuinely enjoyed everything they’d done so far.

Mikkel thought for a moment, then looked at Oliver. “How about the Pantheon?” He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on his face. It made Oliver smile.

“Lead the way.”

~

“Tip better pay a lot for this article,” Yands grumbled to Mikkel, tucking his phone back into his pocket. They were walking toward the section of the Tiber that Connor had directed them to, Owen halfway up the block peering in the windows of the shops that were still open. It was beginning to grow dark, the sun setting in the distance, casting a yellow glow over the city.

“All my articles pay the same,” Mikkel replied, nudging Yands in the arm when he says something under his breath that Mikkel can’t quite make out. He has been friends with Yands long enough to get the gist.

“Someone better pay well for these pics then,” Yands said. He pulled his camera out of his bag and snapped a few quick pictures of Owen with his face very nearly pressed to the glass of a shop selling various pottery with Italian phrases painted on them. Mikkel found it sort of endearing that the pottery pieces were so enthralling to someone who probably has a castle filled with some of the best art in the world, and then he put that feeling behind him. This article was a rent check, he reminded himself. “I have had to pay for every part of today’s venture,” Yands continued as he packed his camera back up.

“If Kristyn were here, she’d tell you to quit whining,” Mikkel said and Yands grumbled again. Mikkel felt a little guilty about making Yands pay for everything, but he figured at this point Yands wouldn’t hold it against him. “Stop taking all my money in poker and maybe I could have paid the Chiaramonti entrance fees.”

“Quit playing poker if you can’t win,” Yands said, but this time there was no heat behind it. He elbowed Mikkel and gestured toward Owen. “At least your prince had a good time there, hanging on your every word.”

Mikkel flushed slightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He really didn’t—often when Mikkel was talking about his favorite art, he sort of lost track of what was going on around him.

“That’s because you don’t pay attention to anything but the art when you’re in all those museums,” Yands said. “I’m not sure he cares as much about the art as he does you.”

Mikkel ducked his head, his blush growing stronger. “He’s just happy to have a tour guide,” Mikkel said, trying to explain away Yands’ accusation. “The guy pretended to be sick so he could sneak away from his royal life, Yands. A royal life he probably plans on returning to at the end of the day.”

“He doesn’t seem all that keen on going back,” Yands said bemusedly. “Maybe he’ll take you with him and he can pay for all your shit instead of me.”

Mikkel pushed him away and Yands laughed.

“I don’t know the Swedish Royal Family’s policy on dating Danish commoners but he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy to care about that,” Yands said, swinging an arm around Mikkel’s neck as he laughed. Mikkel tried to duck out of his grip but Yands wouldn’t let him go. “I call dibs on being photographer at the wedding.”

“Shut up,” Mikkel said. He grabbed Yands’ arm and finally succeeded on freeing himself from Yands’ grasp. “It’s one article, Yands, and then I’ll probably never see him again.”

“Yeah, well, make sure you remember that when the deadline comes,” Yands said. Mikkel tried not to think about what Yands meant by that, an action made easier by the sight of the Tiber in front of them.

Owen waited for them at the end of the street and when Mikkel and Yands caught up with him, he looked excited. The steps from the street down to the bank were lined with little lights, lighting the walkway all the way down to the platform that had been added to the edge of the Tiber, which stretched on for several kilometers in either direction. Several white pop up tents had been set up between the two sets of stairs closest to them. Music was coming out from under them, loud top 100 pop that Mikkel knew Yands loved, even though he said he hated it—he’d caught him humming a Sia song earlier that day when he thought Mikkel wasn’t around.

The sun had gone completely down by the time they made it to the stairs. The music drowned out the sound of the Tiber flowing out beyond the docks, the lights reflecting off the glossy black surface.

“You made it!” Mikkel heard a familiar voice shout over the music as they approached the tents. He looked to his right to see Connor, their waiter from the Piazza, waving at them. The other waiter, Tobi, was standing behind him.

“I’ve never been to a party,” Owen said. Mikkel turned to give him a questioning look—surely attending important parties were part of a prince’s duties. “Not like this,” he added when he saw Mikkel’s face. Owen’s eyes had gone a little wide at the sight of all of the people under the tents. He looked a little overwhelmed. “My work parties are a little more…”

“Refined?” Mikkel offered.

Owen rolled his eyes. “Stuffy,” he said. He looked around the tents once more and when his gaze returned to Mikkel, he looked less overwhelmed and more determined, the same mischevious glint in his eye he’d had when Mikkel had first met him. Mikkel tried hard not to be won over by that. He didn’t think it was working. “This looks like fun.” He grabbed Mikkel’s hand, taking Mikkel by surprise. “Let’s dance,” Owen said, and pulled Mikkel into the crowd.

Mikkel hadn’t expected this to happen—he’d sort of thought that Owen would mingle with the other party guests while he hung out with Yands, who would take pictures without any sort of direction from Mikkel, because he hated when Mikkel tried to suggest a shot to him. “Which one of us is paid to take pictures,” he’d say flatly, whenever Mikkel tried it, “and which of us gets paid to write about local elections?”

Mikkel always rolled his eyes—he studied art history, he knew _some_ things about art—but always relented, because Yands was nothing if not extremely good at his job.

Instead he found himself packed in between all the party guests and Owen, who was dancing with such abandon in front of him, hands waving, body moving, that Mikkel found it hard to be all that annoyed with the change in plans. Mikkel joined him, doing his best to let the song currently playing wash over him, but he couldn’t help but watch Owen.

Owen seemed even more carefree than he had all day and Mikkel suddenly felt a little sad for him. At the end of the day, he had to go back to a life he had worked so hard to escape for the day. Mikkel didn’t know how bad a prince’s life could be, really, but he knew from experience that people didn’t tend to run away without a reason.

And here Mikkel was, pretending to be an accountant to expose Owen’s holiday for an article.

Why was he even doing it? He needed the money, sure, but there were other articles he could write, ones that wouldn’t cause a scandal in Owen—Prince Oliver’s life. Prince Oliver, who he’d thought was just a stuffed up royal figurehead who pulled one over on the press just because he could, but who was actually a nice, goofy, smart guy. Who smiled so earnestly at Mikkel when he talked that Mikkel actually felt like what he was saying was worthwhile—a feeling he didn’t get even from his own articles these days. A guy who had just wanted to be expectation-free for one day and eat some gelato in a historic city.

The thought of writing the article suddenly seemed like a step backwards for Mikkel. It was the furthest thing from the arts and cultures writing he’d always wanted to do; the exact opposite, really, classless, completely artless, exploiting a guy who had really done nothing wrong. He felt a pang inside of him, some mixture of guilt and sadness. He recognized the feeling.

Mikkel was a terrible, terrible person who was always, always losing.

The music paused temporarily, giving the emcee time to announce something that Mikkel wasn’t paying attention to. Oliver had stopped dancing and was looking at Mikkel, wearing a big smile, his cheeks flushed. Mikkel very much, and very suddenly, wanted to kiss him, but he couldn’t, because he’d spent all day taking advantage of Oliver and neither of them really knew who the other was, at least in name, and he’d done enough wrong things for one day, probably. Instead, he smiled back.

“Wanna get out of here?” He said, and Oliver bent closer to hear him better. Mikkel had to steel himself before he could say, “We’ve still got one thing we have to see.”

Oliver smiled at him and nodded, so Mikkel led them out of the crowd. Once they reached the edge of the tents, Oliver pulled out his phone and sent off a quick text before tucking it back into his pocket. He frowned at Mikkel. “Where’s Yands?”

“This one’s just us,” Mikkel said. Yands had enough pictures for the article already, they could make do without their last stop being photographed. He pulled out his phone and sent Yands a text to tell him to meet up at Mikkel’s place later, then headed for the stairs. Oliver followed.

Yands wouldn’t be that mad at him. He was pretty sure.

~

Oliver followed Mikkel back into the city. Neither of them said much as they walked; Oliver could tell something had changed for Mikkel. He had hardly met Oliver’s eyes since they left the party, but Oliver didn’t know why. They hadn’t even really talked there either, just danced a few songs before Mikkel wanted to leave.

The way he had looked at Oliver, though, before he’d asked if Oliver wanted to leave had left Oliver just as confused as how Mikkel was treating him now. He’d looked as if he wanted to kiss Oliver—as if he wanted Oliver.

Oliver would have reciprocated, too, would have kissed him back and would have felt lighter and freer than he had all day, probably. And then he’d have gone back to the Coliseum and never told anyone about it except for Vermy and maybe one day Mikkel would see Oliver in a newspaper or on television and figure out that he’d kissed a prince instead of a regular guy in need of a vacation.

Which, he was that too, but most people he knew liked to focus on the prince part.

“Well?” Mikkel said, breaking Oliver out of his reverie. He hadn’t realized how far they’d walked while he’d been thinking. “What do you think?”

Before them was one of the most beautiful fountains Oliver had ever seen, lit up by lights placed under the water. The backdrop was a large arch, at the center of which was the statue of a man with a long beard and fierce gaze. He was situated on a chariot shaped like a shell that led to two horses. Each horse, one calm and the other bucking, had the statue of a man attached. In front of that a waterfall made of large stones led to a pool of water, filled with coins.  And this was only the central part of the fountain—it was so large and so detailed Oliver couldn’t take it in all at once.

“It’s amazing,” Oliver said, a bit breathlessly.

“Welcome to the Trevi Fountain,” Mikkel said, and he smiled at Oliver for the first time since they’d left the party. “The largest baroque fountain in the world.”

Oliver smiled—he loved listening to Mikkel talk about art. “What’s the story?”

Oliver noticed the surprisingly small amount of people around the fountain, just two other couples and a group of teen tourists, all spread out enough along the great length of the pool that it was almost like they were the only ones there, as Mikkel began to talk.

“It represents Oceanus,” Mikkel said, pointing at the figure in the middle with the long beard. “Not Neptune like a lot of people think—see, he doesn’t have his triton. He’s being carried by two hippocamps, seahorses, which represent the moods of the sea.”

Oliver watched and listened as Mikkel pointed out various parts of the statue to explain their meaning. He always made sure to look where Mikkel pointed, but his favorite part was watching Mikkel’s face light up when he got to his favorite bits.

When Mikkel was finished, Oliver asked, “Do I get to throw a coin in?”

Mikkel laughed and fished around in his pocket until he pulled out a coin. “Of course,” he said, handing it over. “It’s the only way to be sure you’ll come back to Rome.”

Oliver took the coin from him and faced the fountain. He closed his eyes, ready to make a wish or think hard about coming back to Rome, whichever he was supposed to do, before Mikkel interrupted him.

“No, no, like this,” Mikkel said. He grabbed Oliver by the shoulders and positioned him so his back was to the fountain. “Now put the coin in your right hand and throw it over your left shoulder.” Mikkel let him go once he made the transfer to his right hand. Oliver tried not to miss the touch.

Oliver closed his eyes again and was pretty sure he heard Mikkel laugh softly at him, but he ignored him. He concentrated hard on his desire to come back to Rome, to see the Pantheon again, to walk the Galleria with Mikkel again, to ride around the city again, and then he tossed the coin over his left shoulder.

When he opened his eyes, Mikkel was looking at him a little bit sadly. “What’s wrong?” Oliver asked, frowning. “Did I do it wrong? I did what you said.”

Mikkel shook his head, a slightly exasperated smile replacing his frown. “Nothing,” he said.

“Come on, you can tell me,” Oliver said. They were still standing pretty close from when Mikkel had maneuvered him into position, so it was easy to reach out and nudge Mikkel’s shoulder. “You might never see me again, so really, you can tell me anything.”

Mikkel sighed softly. He gave Oliver a considering look, like he was contemplating the validity of Oliver’s statement. Finally, his face softened, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. “I’m really hoping you’ll come back.”

“Oh,” Oliver said. Mikkel was standing really close to him, which made it kind of hard for Oliver to look down at him. He tucked his chin down a bit so he could see Mikkel better. Mikkel was looking up at him through his lashes, like he didn’t want to make direct eye contact with Oliver and Oliver, impulsively, leaned down to kiss him.

Mikkel hardly seemed surprised by it; he kissed back immediately, a hand reaching up to grab a fistful of Oliver’s shirt and pull him closer.

Mikkel pulled back first. He leaned his forehead on Oliver’s shoulder for a moment, and then said, “Shit.”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed. But he lifted an arm around Mikkel’s shoulder anyway, pulling him in tighter.

He’d thought, earlier, that kissing Mikkel would make him feel light and free, the perfect carefree moment to end a carefree day. But now all he could think about was that he’d never get this again. He was going back to his everyday life, a life of pretending to be perfect and pretending that he loved politics and pretending, pretending, always pretending. He’d lied about his name today but he’d never felt more like himself than he had hanging out with Mikkel and Yands.

“Well,” Mikkel said, taking a small step away from Oliver and looking up at him. “Where to now?”

Oliver felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. When he pulled it out he saw another text from Vermy.

 _Sometime soon, Oliver_.

Oliver could practically hear Vermy chiding him, the tone of voice he reserved for when he really needed Oliver to listen to him, lest Oliver grow immune to it. Oliver sighed. “I think I gotta get back to my hotel soon,” Oliver said, pocketing his phone again.

Mikkel stepped back a little more, distancing himself from Oliver. “Right,” he said. “I’ll let you go then?”

Oliver wasn’t quite ready to let the night end, the inevitable scolding from Vermy aside. “Actually, I think I’d like to see the Coliseum at night,” Oliver said and, deciding to just go for it, he reached out and took Mikkel’s hand, threading their fingers together.

Mikkel blinked down at their hands for a moment but before Oliver had time to regret it and untangle their fingers, Mikkel smiled cautiously up at him.

Oliver’s phone vibrated again but he ignored it. He still had some time before the night was over, Vermy could yell at him then.  He wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

~

Yands was already inside Mikkel’s apartment when he let himself in. It was almost midnight but Yands was set up at the desk in Mikkel’s living room, laptop open in front of him, flipping through pictures.

“Thanks for ditching me at the party,” Yands said as soon as Mikkel opened the door.

“We could have met in the morning,” Mikkel said as he locked his front door. He dropped his keys on the coffee table and sat on the back of the couch.

“Like you’re a morning person,” Yands said dryly. “Besides, I got some good ones and I want to show them off.”

Mikkel rolled his eyes but he leaned in over Yands’ shoulder anyway. Yands moved through the pictures slower to give Mikkel a chance to look.

They scrolled through some good shots of Oliver taking off down the street on the rented Vespa, Mikkel chasing after him in a few, until they got to one that made Mikkel’s chest tighten. Yands had captured the moment after Mikkel had jumped on the back of the Vespa, one hand on Oliver’s waist, the other reaching around to steady the handles.

Yands kept on moving, oblivious to Mikkel’s guilt. There’s some of Oliver climbing the Spanish Steps, a great one of Oliver’s first look at Michelangelo’s work in the Sistine Chapel. Mikkel felt guiltier with each picture.

“This is a really good one,” Yands said, tapping the screen with his finger. They were in the Galleria Borghese, Mikkel walking slightly ahead of Oliver and looking at some painting out of frame and probably giving a lecture to go along with it. Oliver had a big smile on his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes, and was looking right at Mikkel.

Mikkel was a terrible, terrible person who could not write this article.

Mikkel was a terrible, terrible person who needed to write this article.

He’d forced Yands to follow them around all day, paying for all the stuff they wanted to do. He’d promised Tip an article. He needed to make rent. And besides, Oliver was the Prince of Sweden, who would probably never look twice at Mikkel once he went back to his real life. Who cared if he lost this chance, when there never really was one in the first place?

Except it hadn’t felt that way at all when they were together. Oliver was smart and kind and interesting and he’d liked Mikkel enough to kiss him at the Trevi, and again when they’d said goodbye. And Mikkel had been himself, mostly, aside from the whole accountant thing.

And even if they didn’t work or couldn’t work or Oliver didn’t want to try, he didn’t want to cause a big scandal in his life, did he?

Mikkel felt sicker every time Yands pressed the right arrow. He’d taken a lot of pictures—somehow he’d even managed to get a few while they were eating at the Piazza.

When they got to the pictures at the party, Mikkel’s stomach turned over.

“Yands,” he said. He didn’t want to look anymore; the way Mikkel was looking at Oliver in all the pictures he was in, with a fondness Mikkel hadn’t really felt for anyone in a long time, was making him feel ill.

“We have to use one of these,” Yands said, still oblivious to Mikkel, who sort of felt like he was dying a very slow, very painful death. Could someone die from too many conflicting feelings? Mikkel didn’t know. Maybe he’d be the first. “It will really sell the whole ‘Prince ditches duties to have fun’ thing. Except you’re in most of them. But we can crop you out.”

Finally they’d reached the last picture, after scrolling past ten or so of Oliver and Mikkel dancing, slightly blurred from the movement. Yands had taken it during the pause in the music. Both Oliver’s and Mikkel’s faces were flushed and they were standing inches apart. Oliver was smiling at Mikkel, as usual.

Mikkel thought he might really be sick. He sat back on the edge of the couch and Yands leaned back in his chair. “That’s all of them,” he said happily.

“I kissed him,” Mikkel blurted, and then dropped his head into his hands in shame.

Yands didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he turned the swivel chair so slowly and deliberately to face Mikkel that Mikkel thought Yands was going to be mad. Instead, when he finally faced Mikkel, his face was very carefully blank, a talent he used often when dealing with Mikkel.

“You what, Boeds?” He said. Mikkel sighed.

“Well, technically, he kissed me,” Mikkel explained. He was looking at Yands through his fingers, trying to hide his shame and embarrassment induced blush. “But yeah. At the Trevi.”

“You kissed him?” Yands said, and Mikkel watched face go through a myriad of emotions: horror, anger, exasperation and then finally, what looked to Mikkel like acceptance. He nodded his head like he was agreeing with whatever conversation he was having in his head, and then he spun back around to face the desk and promptly closed his laptop.

“What are you doing?” Mikkel asked. He hadn’t even picked out any pictures yet.

“You’re not writing the article,” Yands said matter-of-factly. He put his laptop in his bag and stood up.

“Of course I’m writing the article!” Mikkel said, following Yands to the door. He hurriedly stepped in front of Yands before he could open it. “I’m writing it!”

Yands looked unimpressed. He met Mikkel’s gaze, staring levelly at Mikkel until Mikkel sighed. Yands was always two steps ahead of him anyway.

“I’m not writing the article,” Mikkel said meekly. He dropped his gaze. He knew he’d wasted a whole day that Yands could have spent on another job or with his daughter.

“This is why I always beat you in poker,” Yands said. “You’re easy to read.”

Mikkel glared at him. “I was gonna write it.”

“I knew you weren’t going to write it when you took that dumb tourist pic at the Spanish Steps,” Yands said, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Mikkel rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me? Would have saved me a lot of time.”

Yands patted him on the shoulder. “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day,” Yands said. “Or maybe I’m a masochist. Besides, someone had to chaperone the Prince of Sweden’s first date with a lowly Danish reporter, didn’t they? What would the people think?” He put on a tone of mock horror. Mikkel punched him on the arm.

“Hey, hey, I’m not done helping you, be nice to me,” Yands said, rubbing at the spot on his arm.

Mikkel looked at him suspiciously. “What do you mean you’re not done helping me?”

Yands smiled at him, mischevious. “If you’re gonna convince the Prince of Sweden you’re not a jackass, we’ve got a lot of work to do. Follow me.” He shoved Mikkel off of the door and opened it, quickly stepping through.

Mikkel let him get to the top of the stairs before he grabbed his coat and keys and followed.

~

Oliver had told Vermy that a day off would help him focus, would clear his head of all the daydreams of being free from his duties.

Instead, while Vermy was prepping him for the press conference, Oliver couldn’t stop thinking about the day before. He wanted to be back out there exploring Rome with Mikkel, holding Mikkel’s hand as Mikkel took him on a tour of another museum, dancing with him at parties they were invited to by random waiters. He wanted to kiss Mikkel in front of all the fountains in Rome, and other places too.

“Oliver,” Vermy said sharply, bringing Oliver out of his reveries. “Smiling like that while talking about skipping yesterday’s interviews may not endear you to anyone.”

“Sorry Vermy.” Oliver tried to quickly school his face into a more solemn look. Judging by the way Vermy was looking at him, it didn’t work.

“I shouldn’t have let you go,” Vermy said for the hundredth time since Oliver had arrived back at the Coliseum last night, just after midnight. It had been the first thing he’d said to Oliver when he’d woken him up this morning, a cup of coffee in one hand and wearing a disapproving look.

Oliver rolled his eyes. He knew Vermy was happy Oliver had had fun, and given that Vermy had eaten breakfast with Karen this morning, Oliver was pretty sure it had worked out for him too. “I’ll be better, I promise,” Oliver said.

Vermy gave him a weary look and then pushed his notebook across the table to Oliver. “Just know these points, alright?”

Oliver nodded and set to work studying.

Two hours later Oliver entered a large conference room and walked toward a podium set up at the front of the room. The room was already filled with reporters; he could hear the low murmur of voices and the clicking shutters of cameras, a few flashes going off. When he reached the podium, he cleared his throat and the room settled down, though the cameras kept clicking away. Vermy stood behind him and off to the side, something of a comfort to Oliver even after all these years of talking to the media.

Oliver put on his best diplomatic smile. “Sorry for canceling on you yesterday, I was feeling a bit under the weather. But thank you for joining me today to talk about how Sweden and Italy can work together in the future.” He paused briefly to let the Italian translator catch up, then said, “Are there any questions?”

The hands of every reporter in the room shot up.

Oliver picked them one at a time, answering questions about education and healthcare in Sweden, their foreign policy, everything the reporters could think to throw at him. After each question, Oliver internally thanked Vermy for ensuring he was always so well prepared.

“Prince Oliver!” Oliver heard an oddly familiar voice come from the crowd. He hadn’t thought that he knew any Italian reporters that well. “Prince Oliver!”

Oliver scanned the rows of reporters for a familiar face, a reporter that might have interviewed him before or attended a press conference in some other country. It took a few seconds before he matched the voice with the face and he couldn’t help the small, shocked, “oh,” that escaped him when he recognized the reporter.

In the middle of the second row on the right stood Mikkel, a recorder in one hand and an envelope in the other. Next to him was Yands, who looked up from his camera to give Oliver a grin.

Oliver had no idea what they were doing here—he didn’t even know how they would have gotten past security without any media credentials. Maybe they had talked their way in? Yands had a camera and Mikkel had a recorder, but it seemed unlikely that security would let two accountants in just because they had the right tools. Unless…

“I think that’s enough questions for today,” Oliver heard Vermy say. He stepped forward so he was standing next to Oliver. “Prince Oliver has some work to do, some people to see. Thank you for coming, but if you will all please clear the room.”

Oliver was still staring at Mikkel as the rest of the reporters were leaving, still for so long that Vermy turned to him and whispered, “Oliver, are you all right?”

Oliver blinked and then shook his head. “M’fine Vermy. I just need a minute with that reporter,” he said, tipping his head in Mikkel’s direction. Vermy turned to look, automatically leveling Mikkel with a cold stare. It almost made Oliver smile when he saw the look on Mikkel’s face grow worried, the corners of his mouth dropping. Oliver loved having Vermy on his team always.

“I’ll just leave you to it then?” Vermy said, raising his eyebrows at Oliver. Oliver nodded and Vermy gave him one last wary look before nodding himself and turning to leave.

Oliver stepped down from the podium as Mikkel and Yands approached the front frow. Yands had packed his camera up and looked oddly smug for someone who had just been caught in a lie. Mikkel on the other hand looked at least somewhat contrite as he walked up to Oliver, his head bowed slightly.

“What are two accountants doing at a press conference?” Oliver asked, his voice cold.

“We heard you had a good economic policy,” Mikkel joked, but his smile fell short when he saw the look on Oliver’s face. Mikkel cleared his throat and then handed Oliver the envelope he was holding. “We came to bring you this.”

Oliver took the envelope but he didn’t open. “What is it?” He said, unsure if he even wanted to know. Really, he should just throw the thing in the trash and forget everything that happened.

“An apology,” Yands chimed in, smiling.

Oliver studied them for a moment, Mikkel flitting back and forth between avoiding Oliver’s eyes and meeting his gaze, and Yands’ steady smile. Then he sighed. He might as well see what was inside.

He slid his finger under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a small object which, when Oliver dumped the contents into his open palm, turned out to be a flash drive.

“What’s on it?” Oliver asked, holding it out from him as if that might actually protect him from the contents of the flash drive.

“Pictures,” Mikkel said brightly, “from yesterday.”

Oliver clenched his fist around the flash drive. He took a deep breath, trying to fight off the anger and sadness simultaneously filling him. He’d thought they were friends, he’d liked Yands and Mikkel. More than liked Mikkel, he’d kissed him and now he was standing in front of Oliver, trying to blackmail him.

“What do you want?” Oliver asked, trying to keep his voice steady. This is what happens when he tries to take a day off, he thought, he should have listened to Vermy, he should have just given his interviews and gone to his meetings and then he never would have met Mikkel and Yands and—

“What?” Mikkel asked, eyes crinkling and brows coming together in confusion. “I don’t want anything.” He looked to Yands, who gave Mikkel an exasperated look and said, “From the beginning, Boeds.”

“Right, right,” Mikkel said, turning back to Oliver. “So. Uh. I’m a reporter, not an accountant,” he started, sheepish.

“I got that,” Oliver said dryly.

“When I realized who you were at that coffee shop yesterday, I thought I could write an article about the Prince of Sweden’s day off,” Mikkel continued. He was rubbing the back of his head, nervous, and avoiding Oliver’s eyes. “But then I decided not to do it.”

“Gee,” Oliver huffed. “Thanks.”

Yands elbowed Mikkel and when Mikkel looked up at him, they seemed to have some sort of silent conversation that Oliver didn’t understand, but had Mikkel nodding. He turned back to Oliver.

“I’m really sorry,” Mikkel said. This time he met Oliver’s gaze. “I shouldn’t have lied to you and I shouldn’t have tried to use you for a story. I don’t even really know why I thought I could do that,” Mikkel chuckled, slightly nervously.

“He’s not normally that big of a jerk,” Yands added. “He’s like, the nicest person I know. Can’t pay for shit himself, but nice.” Yands smiled and the admission managed to make Oliver laugh.

“Once I got to know you, there was no way I was going to write that article,” Mikkel continued. Yands gave Oliver a knowing look; Oliver suspected that Yands had known the whole time that Mikkel wouldn’t be able to write the article. They’d only spent one day together but Mikkel hadn’t come across that mean at all. Then again, he’d also lied to Oliver, so maybe Oliver didn’t know him as well as he thought.

“What about these?” Oliver held the flash drive up, but he wasn’t as wary as he had been. Mikkel’s apology seemed sincere enough.

“We just wanted you to have them,” Mikkel answered. He gave Oliver a small, shy smile. “To remember yesterday.”

Oliver tried to fight a smile. This was more in line with who he’d thought Mikkel was, not the guy Oliver thought had come to extort him. “Thanks,” Oliver said and this time Mikkel smiled brightly at him. Oliver was happy he could find him cute again.

Yands elbowed Mikkel again and after a quick glance, Mikkel cleared his throat. “I, uh,” Mikkel started. Oliver couldn’t help but grin at the way Mikkel was blushing furiously and how he kept bringing his hand up to rub his jaw subconsciously. “I really like you, Oliver,” Mikkel said. Next to him, Yands was beaming proudly. He patted Mikkel on the shoulder encouragingly. “And I, uh, I’d like to maybe…start over? With the truth this time.” Mikkel looked up at Oliver, a hopeful smile on his face.

Oliver turned the flash drive over in his hand carefully, letting Mikkel stew—he was pretty sure Yands already knew what he was going to say. He put the flash drive in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“Thank you for the apology,” Oliver said. Mikkel nodded slightly. “I’m Oliver,” he said, extending his hand with a smile. “Prince of Sweden.”

Mikkel’s smile grew even bigger. He took Oliver’s hand and shook it firmly.

“I’m Mikkel, reporter, not accountant.”

~

Mikkel spent the entire ride from the airport to the Coliseum looking out the window, just short of pressing his nose to the glass. It had been several years since Mikkel left Rome to join Oliver in Sweden and though they had traveled together, this was the first time they had been back to Rome. It was a trip Mikkel had been looking forward to ever since Oliver mentioned it months ago.

“It’s a good thing we stopped by the Trevi before I left Rome last,” Oliver had said, and that was all it had taken for Mikkel to throw his arms around Oliver’s neck in celebration.

 “I have meetings all day today,” Oliver told him now, when they’d finally made it to their room. “But tomorrow I am all yours.”

Mikkel laughed. “Are you sure Vermy is okay with that?”

Oliver smirked at him. “It was his idea. Probably trying to prevent a repeat of the last time I came to Rome.”

“And Karen is here,” Mikkel added. Vermy had tried to deny his excitement over seeing Karen again, but Oliver and now Mikkel knew him too well.

“Mhmm,” Oliver said. He took a step toward Mikkel, crowding him against the side of the bed. “I trust you can find something to do while you’re on your own.”

 “I’m home,” Mikkel said with a smile. He reached out to fix the lapels of Oliver’s suit, then used them to pull Oliver into a kiss. “I’ll be fine. Go to your meetings, I’ll meet up with you when you’re done.”

“If you say so,” Oliver said, leaning down to kiss Mikkel one more time before he left. As he was going out the door he called over his shoulder, “Tell Yands I said hi!”

“Oliver says hi,” was the first thing Mikkel said when he met Yands outside of Doaner’s apartment. It wasn’t a far walk from the Coliseum but Mikkel was proud of himself for still remembering the way anyway.

Yands pulled him into a hug, clapping him on the back before he let go. “Nice to see you still hang out with us commoners now that you’re dating a prince.”

Mikkel rolled his eyes. Hardly a day goes by that Mikkel doesn’t text Yands at least once. “Whatever. The Swedish Royal Family is nicer to me than you are.”

Yands bumped him companionably as they headed through the door. “I hope that fancy new museum job of yours is paying you well, Boeds. I’ve missed taking your money.”

Mikkel laughed. His new job as an art curator for Millesgården did pay him well enough to keep up with Yands’ shark like poker playing, if he had been around to play. The fact that he wasn’t around to play meant that his savings had grown quite a bit while he’d been away.

It was good to see Yands, Doaner and the rest of his former coworkers (and Smitty, of course) again, but Mikkel was happy to return to Oliver at the Coliseum at the end of the night (even if Yands’ “Kristyn is demanding you come by for dinner before you leave, and Mila misses you so you better show up” before they had parted had felt a bit like a dagger to the heart).

Mikkel loved Rome, he loved the Yandles and all of his friends, but nothing felt more like home than being with Oliver.

~

 Mikkel was in a suspiciously good mood when Oliver woke up. So good, in fact, that he wasn’t even in bed when Oliver rolled over to say good morning. He was taken aback when a pair of his own socks hit him in the face.

“Get up,” Mikkel said cheerily from the other side of the room. He had already started getting ready for the day, hair wet from the shower and jeans on. “We’ve got things to do.”

Oliver pulled the blankets over his head and grumbled. His years of early morning meetings hadn’t made him into a morning person, a fact that Vermy often lamented when having to drag Oliver out of bed in the morning.

Now, though, that was Mikkel’s job. Oliver couldn’t help but smile when he felt Mikkel lean over him and tug the blanket down.

“We’re getting coffee first,” Mikkel said. He leaned down to kiss Oliver and then used his position to yank the comforter off of Oliver. “Hurry up,” Mikkel said, smiling.

Oliver grumbled again, annoyed at the rush of cool air on him, but he gave in and got out of bed. He hip checked Mikkel lightly as he passed him on the way to the bathroom.

Less than an hour later, Oliver was letting Mikkel lead him through Rome again. The memory of the last time they had been here together made him smile. This time was better though, in Oliver’s opinion, since now he could hold Mikkel’s hand as they walked through the streets.

He knew how much Rome meant to Mikkel; he had been so excited from the moment Oliver had told him they were coming, and he’d been so happy since they had arrived yesterday.

“Do you ever think about moving back?” Oliver asked him as they passed a _pasticceria_. The smell of freshly baked pastries made him hungry.

“Sometimes,” Mikkel said. He squeezed Oliver’s hand. “Not without you though.”

Oliver smiled and squeezed his hand back. “We can get a vacation home here,” he said lightly. “Or a nice apartment, maybe,” he added, thinking of the apartment overlooking the Tiber that Mikkel loved so much when he lived here before. “We’ll have more time to visit here after the New Year.”

Mikkel smiled at Oliver so brightly it almost made him blush and then Mikkel came to a complete stop in front of a café. “Do you remember this place?” Mikkel asked him.

Oliver looked through the door; the decorations and the way the tables were set up seemed familiar. It wasn’t until he looked back to Mikkel, who was smiling patiently up at him, that it clicked.

“This is where we first met,” Oliver said and grinned. Mikkel’s smile grew and he led Oliver inside.

Mikkel ordered them both coffees and then walked them over to a table by the window.

“This was my favorite café when I lived here,” Mikkel said when they sat down. He knocked his ankle against Oliver’s under the table. “I came here before work all the time. Sometimes to do work.” He looked around the café happily for a moment, then smiled at Oliver.

“I’m glad I stopped here that morning,” Oliver said. It would have been so easy for him to completely pass by this place when he’d first set out to explore Rome all those years ago. He didn’t even want to think what his time in Rome would have been like without Mikkel, let alone what his life would be like now.

“Me too.” Mikkel smiled again. He leaned back in his chair, holding his coffee just under his chin. “So, what do you want to do today, Owen?”

Oliver laughed. He took a drink of his coffee and thought for a moment. Last time they were here, it had been Oliver who was the most excited to explore Rome, to get out on his own for the first time.

“Whatever you want,” Oliver said. Mikkel beamed at him. “It’s your day.”


End file.
